


Warmth

by rosemallows



Category: The Boy Who Danced on Air - Rosser/Sohne
Genre: Afghanistan, Ambition, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy, Heartbreak, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Post-Canon, Reminiscing, Repressed Memories, What-If, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 18:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemallows/pseuds/rosemallows
Summary: Paiman recalls memories stuck in his heavy, painful brain and longs for a life that could've been.





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in one sitting. Some parts may not make sense because I wrote this as a drabble to collect all my thoughts and kickstart the first fanfiction of this ridiculously underrated musical, "The Boy Who Danced on Air" which needs a serious popularity boost so I may see it live.

His palms were smothered with dust, scraping at his skin, eating at him. That never bothered him, for he was quite used to the heat of the desert. There was a ridge of discolored skin rested atop his palm-- an insulting reminder of _him_ , the boy with the forward personality-- his quick feet and intoxicating performance.

His scar, when Paiman had impulsively cut his own palm and Feda’s– a mark that meant forever, to become  _one._  

The limbs of that boy’s being seemed to oppose his own; for his was brash, quick, seductive-- his own were quiet, graceful, gentle.

And he’d cherish the moment he’d meet his gaze again. 

There is no hope here, his head feels heavy with memories-- memories of what shouldn’t have been and what could have been. Heavy like lead, loaded with the kind touch of his hand, the different tenderness of his embrace and his skin. His embrace was the kind of warm he wanted to feel forever. It was warmer than the sun, warmer than sitting alone, surrounded by the mountaintops and hearing your voice reverberate into thousands of voices, comforting your senses and momentarily pausing you from the wasted life you’ve had.  
  
Feda was a gentle warmth, and he was still here. Still here in the palm of his hand.

The boy’s quivering fingers cracked open as he slid his other palm over the scar, jagged and hesitant, purple and grey and bumpy and not quite the color of his skin.

Feda was still here.

He was here. 

And he was sitting with him; in the desolate shell of a home.

Sitting in his palm on a floor too hard to sit on, with the harsh rush of sand flowing in from holes in the wall and prickling his skin.

He was not Jahandar, who was scary and cold and his embrace never felt tender and gentle. With Feda, Paiman never felt forced to wrap his arms around him-- _Feda_ who shared with him his ideals and wants.

 _Feda,_  who encouraged him to be the boy beyond a dancer-- to decide whether he wanted to do what, and to decide what was not comfortable for him. Feda and his wish for freedom, his touch that did not feel like an obligation-- his hug, that for the first time, felt foreign; different, something his heart resonated with.

Being as affectionate with Feda as Jahandar had been to him was very different. Hugging Feda felt kinder and something that Paiman wanted to last for a longer duration. He could not, for the life of him, feel that grudging, anvil like sensation within him that urged him to stay in his place; one that usually bubbled up inside of him whenever Jahandar called for him. It was the feeling of begrudgement, whereas with the singing boy, he never wanted to leave his side.  


And his brain was weighing down. 

Zemar’s unkind arms, his animalistic eyes, and the cold appearance of a gun burned his mind. A scent of kerosene burdened his stomach, clawing at his heart, increasing the pain of the bumpy scar cupped in his palm. He could still feel his cold, horrid, disgusting touch– that very night, without Jahandar or Feda to save him. His hands were dirty, and all of him were dirty, dirty, _dirty_. 

The cruel snippets of previous years, and his longing for this embrace; his heart yearning, and eager for that sensation that produced massive amounts of warmth to his skin; fluttering of his heart and stomach, and the feeling of complete happiness and knowing that none of it feels like an obligation.

He yearned for all of that, but he lay, in this unloved home, with the ghosts of people who have rushed away without a goodbye. The foundation of the house became his own, shielding him from the sun that cannot provide him with what he longs for.

Everything was quiet, excluding the rush of the wind and quiet, quick breaths of the young man in the shelter. His eyes were blank, yet the stream of water dripping down his palen cheeks and dripping into his convulsing hands told a story.

His wife couldn’t help fulfill the gentle kiss and soft hands that _he_ could provide. Her affection was different; for it felt more like an obligation again, and not what he wanted. She remained covered by her Burqa, quiet and timid and listening to everything that Paiman says.

He enjoyed her company, and encouraged her to make her own wishes, which it seemed that she still struggled to grasp. The very idea of free will was absolutely magical, and he wishes so dearly that he could provide that for the both of them.

Feda once told of a story-- him and his stories, as captivating as him. 

Feda-- the epitome of a blazing, gentle spirit, with his dances, his voice, all of him was absolutely full of warmth.

He once told of a story, of how after they make their lives in the city, the airport is there, sitting, waiting, and longing for them to step inside and take them away and take them on a journey elsewhere-- somewhere free, somewhere where they can be happy, and the gentle touches and kisses on the lips will not be judged. Where boys and boys could dance together and women could walk about, and decide for what they wanted, and could speak up and had a choice whether they wanted to stay home or not. It was a land where no one could own you, and men could not treat you the way dancing boys like him were treated. 

He yearned for that too; yearned for a life like such with his blazing, gentle spirit. 

His wife stay at home, covered and unable to live her life to an amazing extent.

If he could not with Feda, he could wish for happiness for her; and hope to leave this place and bring her there where she did not have to feel confined to him and she could find love in someone other than him. She could learn to drive, and they could both learn to read, and they could both decide everything on their own.

Feda, in his palm, could see what Paiman has done for him. He could see how his words have encouraged him, and helped them live a life that didn’t chain them down and restrict them.

But. 

Those were the faults of a fantasy; your heavy, heavy brain, so overwhelmed with the past and the traumatic pain of it all that it gravitates toward the sunshine, hoping and wishing for what could never be accomplished. Its struggling hope would lead to disaster, and Paiman cannot get them out of here. 

Feda couldn’t even bring them to the city.

His eyes stung, tears burning everything, his hands folding together to shield away Feda’s reminder.

And none of what he yearned for could be accomplished.

That was the disastrous truth of it all, and he knew, that all the warmth he desperately wished could be attained right now, couldn’t come back, and couldn’t save them, and he knows that the order of this country is what he’ll follow, what he can only follow, from now, until his death.

 

 


End file.
